To a Steadfast Heart
by ThisCouldTheoreticallyBeSparta
Summary: A collection of one hundred SuFin oneshots, showing the many sides of Sweden and Finland's relationship. In war, in peace, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse.
1. Introduction

**TO A STEADFAST HEART**

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Summary: A collection of one hundred SuFin oneshots, showing the many sides of Sweden and Finland's relationship. In war, in peace, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse.

A/n: This used to be a 100 Sentences thing, which I got from a friend who is doing Ladonia/Kugelmugel drabbles for the 100 prompts (for those of you who can speak Italian, I strongly recommend her work: Love Art by Lady H.K). I owe three very special people fics, and most of you a finale to the first part of Last Chance. These will arrive eventually, I've just had some very unhappy months, lately, and my writing has suffered for the hard times. Forgive me for that.

Also, the title is part of a line from Sleeping Beauty: _But a hundred years to a steadfast heart are but a day_.

**1. Introduction**

Sometimes, Sverige doesn't understand why they take him along with them. He's shared between longboats like some sort of baggage no one wants. If they would just leave him be, let him run wild and free like Norway can, then he would not feel so useless, like such a burden.

So he kicks the ground, dark and damp from the chill of early spring, and half-listens to stilted transactions and haggling over furs and spices in a language he doesn't understand. These people they trade with and occasionally plunder aren't his own, they belong to someone else, although he knows not who this 'someone else' is. He knows Norway, he knows Denmark, and he knows England… He's seen Scotland, Ireland and Wales as well, and he doesn't like them. But the one these people belong to… He's a mystery.

In the end, bored like only a young boy can be, Sverige wanders off. He knows that, on the cusp of puberty as he is, he should pay attention and learn trade and the skills he will need to refine it, but… he can't bring himself to be bothered, not today. Not when he is restless with sea travel and youth. So he takes to the woods, wandering among the tall, pale trees and humming along to the birdsong.

It is then that he sees the shadow flitting ahead.

He stops, he watches, alert, a hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes, blue as the sea, are narrowed, gazing around. For a long, still moment there is nothing but the twittering of birds and the immobility of the forest itself, the silent thunder of growing trees. Slowly, warily, he takes his hand from his weapon, but his guard is not let down. There could be anything in these woods. Näcken and Huldra prowl the forests, waiting to snare the unwary traveller with music and beauty – although Sverige doesn't think much of the huldra. She doesn't seem very tempting at all.

It is only when he turns to leave, for one can never be too careful, that he notices the spear point in his face. He freezes, and looks beyond the sharp, pointed metal.

His breath is taken, his heart flutters, and he wonders whether this is a näcken come to whisk him away. He doesn't think he would mind very much, as he loses himself in eyes the colour of heather. He's never seen anything so beautiful before.

And, with a thrill along his spine, he also understands that this boy is like him. Deeper than human, built of culture, language and people. He cannot move, cannot speak, all he can do is remember to breathe, helpless as his heart is stolen.

The boy shouts something, demanding, angry, but Sverige doesn't understand. He begins to raise a hand, and the spear is pointed at his throat by pale, sweet fingers. He stills, swallows and slowly lifts his hand to point at himself.

"_Sverige,"_ he mutters. The boy glares, eyes narrowed in suspicion, until he nods.

"_Suomi,"_ he says, indicating himself. They gaze upon each other, Sverige enraptured and Suomi wary, like an animal easily startled, ready to bolt at the slightest movement. The air is still, the forest still quietly alive around them, but everything seems brighter, clearer, as a ray of sun through a storm cloud.

There is a call of his name, Sverige turns, and by the time he turns back Suomi, beautiful, cryptic Suomi, is gone, fleeting like frost in spring.

Sverige watches where he has gone, deep into the shadows of the woods, heart pounding, filled with a longing he cannot yet begin to understand. With a strange certainty born from something only the gods can fathom, he knows he will see that pretty will-o-the-wisp again.


	2. Complicated

**2. Complicated**

"I'm sure that piece doesn't go there," Finland said tartly. He was wielding instructions like a treasure map, and giving a very acerbic opinion on whatever Sweden did wrong. Which, to Finland, had apparently become everything, ignoring the fact that Sweden had been building furniture since he'd first figured out that a hammer wasn't just for people's skulls. The Swedish nation merely ignored him and continued diligently screwing the hinges on. He knew perfectly well where they went. Instructions were for foolish mortals who hadn't hand-hewn the wood for their first marriage bed.

The two were sitting in what was going to become Sealand's room, Finland cross-legged on a chair and Sweden kneeling in the middle of the floor, armed with a screwdriver and infinite patience. He'd built enough wardrobes in his time to not need the instructions, but Finland doggedly soldiered on with his waspish comments. Not that he could actually make much sense of the instructions. Wasn't IKEA supposed to be the easiest thing in the world? Although… Finland did tend to have a problem even with the LEGO booklets.

He was the only person who could make a house while following the instructions for a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

"Are you sure it's going to actually stand?" Finland asked doubtfully, giving the blue wardrobe door a dark look, as if its very existence were beneath him. Sweden rolled his eyes and spat the screws into his palm, levelling the other with a very pointed look.

"Y'don't trust me, even when y'know I've built nearly all the furniture we've ever owned, most of it from scratch?" he demanded. Finland looked away haughtily, but the embarrassed flush was more than enough to give him away, and after a few interminable moments of Swedish staring, the Finnish nation deflated with a sigh.

"I just feel so useless!" he said, throwing the instructions to the side and folding his arms. "And scared! And nervous! We're bringing this kid we barely know into our lives, all of a sudden, and I'm terrified! Not to mention my government's whinging about me spending so much time with you, and… and it's all so damn _complicated_ right now!"

Sweden blinked. Well, he hadn't been expecting that. With his own sigh, he stood up and headed over to where Finland sat, pouting. He knelt in front of the other man's chair, folding his arms across Finland's knees.

"Don't y'think I'm scared too?" he asked mildly. "Damn, 'm terrified. What if 'm not a good father? What if he doesn't like us? What if he's allergic t'dogs? Can't sleep, sometimes, 'm worrying so much." He shook his head, offering a small smile. "'S complicated, but we can make it work. I know we can."

Finland proffered his own smile in return, although it was mostly bitten lip and nervous chuckle. Winding his fingers around Sweden's, he shrugged.

"I… I suppose you're right," he murmured. "It does get terribly overwhelming." He stroked a hand through Sweden's hair. As usual, it changed nothing of his hairstyle, and Sweden seemed to press into his touch like an overgrown cat.

"Sometimes y'think you're not ready, even though –"

"– You know you are," Finland finished. They sat quietly for a moment, eyes locked. There was uncertainty there, in both their gazes, but there was also determination. With a brief kiss Finland answered with an approving hum, Sweden returned to his previous spot kneeling amongst the contents of one of the many boxes they'd brought back from IKEA the day before.

"He's going to be coming into a very strange family," Finland remarked, resting his chin on his knees. "With a lot of history. I expect it's just as daunting as us waiting for him."

"We're all going t'be nervous," Sweden said simply, applying the final screw and allowing himself a brief moment to admire his handiwork. "Want t'help me put the rest of the wardrobe up? I need someone t'hold it."

With a smile, Finland stood and made his way over to the rest of the wardrobe. Sweden was right. They could make it, no matter the complications.


	3. Making History

**3. Making History**

_Thanks to Gui Zhou for helping me sort out my ideas for this one!_

Sweden had never thought the taste of victory could be so sweet. Here he sits, watching Denmark curse him from between gritted teeth as he signs away half his empire. Norway stands behind him, shuddering as each signature is laid, every furious scribble of Denmark's name a piece of him ripped away. His eyes, when they are open, are icy slivers of hatred. Sweden is unfazed. He has all he truly needs standing beside him, close, warm and _his_.

Finland licks his lips as Denmark lays his name on each line with a trembling hand. He leans into Sweden, running a sultry hand along the empire's broad shoulders, a promise of things to come that night: the conqueror's reward. Sweden leans into the touch, glances up, although he doesn't want to miss a moment Denmark's humiliation. Finland's gaze is half-lidded, heated, enticing, deep enough to drown in. Sweden's lips can't help but twitch as arousal raises its fiery head in the pit of his stomach and sniffs the air.

He can also feel Denmark's gaze upon him, daggers, and he turns back as Finland continues to stroke him, fingers delicate but hungry. His beautiful Finnish partner is almost in his lap now, perched on the arm of his heavy oak chair like an exquisite rare bird, a wanton, shameless juxtaposition to Norway's straight-backed air of defeat. It's obvious that Finland is taking great pleasure in Denmark's mortification, almost as much as Sweden himself. Finland has a cruel streak Sweden would never have suspected from one so precious and perfect, concealed deep behind a smile.

Finally, the last signature is laid, and Denmark's shoulders lose their tension. He deflates, falls forward, runs a hand across his face. Sweden enjoys the scene with hidden relish, made greater only by the knowledge that the humiliation is a thousand times worse for it is inflicted here, in Denmark's own Roskilde. Norway, in a rare display of affection, places a comforting hand on Denmark's shoulder, upon which Denmark places his own with a weak smile. It is a smile that says to not worry, and that Sweden wishes to wipe off. Violently. Finland snorts derisively, and the two across the table both glare. Sweden remains as impassive as ever as Denmark rises, trying to be tall and mighty and failing miserably simply by virtue of diminished territory.

"Happy, now?" he snarls, his boyish face twisted with contempt. Sweden gives a non-committal shrug.

"Until you need taking down another notch," he says, and even he cannot keep the smug note from his voice. Denmark makes to lunge across the table, but Norway halts him, reins him in before he can do any worse.

Finland slowly takes his hand from his sword hilt, his eyes no longer heated and hungry, but cold and calculating. They never leave the two opposite him. Sweden has not moved an inch, more than secure in his power.

With one last disgusted look, Norway leaves, Denmark in tow. The once-mighty King of the North now brings to mind a beaten dog, and Sweden could not lie and say it wasn't satisfying. Their nobles trail out behind them, a sorry band of bereaved losers, and Finland finally slides into Sweden's lap, circling his arms around the empire's neck. He is smiling like a cat that has stolen fresh cream.

"Look at you, my great, powerful empire," he purrs, licking his way along Sweden's lips, taking the bottom one between his teeth. One hand slides down Sweden's chest, kneading through wool and leather, as he hums both with need and contentment.

"_Dominium maris baltici,"_ Finland whispers before Sweden takes his mouth in a scorching kiss, all passion and the heat of power, their bodies flushed with arousal and conquest. This day will go down in history.


	4. Rivalry

**4. Rivalry**

He throws back the shot of vodka, slamming the glass on the scuffed, scratched wood. There's a glint in his violet eyes, a spark of pride backed by too much testosterone.

"He's hung like a horse!" he says, his Finnish accent thicker when drunk.

Across the table, eyes of a different hue have the same glint, as their owner downs his own shot, triumphant.

"Quality over quantity, mate," he replies, grin vicious and just begging for a fight.

Sometimes, Sweden wonders whether Finland is worse than him, when it comes to Denmark and getting one up on him. Whenever they go out together, all five, they end up in a drinking contest. Or increasingly violent games of pool or darts – both of which Finland inevitably wins due to his impeccable aim. Or the karaoke contest, which Finland also won hands down with his knowledge of ABBA by proxy and wonderful voice. It's almost as if Finland feels an inexplicable need to defend Sweden's honour, tables forcefully turned, through the manliest (and sometimes not) pursuits one can find in a bar. Not that Sweden can't defend his honour on his own, but… well, it's very flattering to see Finland snarl Denmark down, even if it's just a pissing contest. Norway also seems to find it entertaining, and it does leave the two of them alone to debate on the most disparate things, which Iceland sometimes joins in if he isn't being blatantly hit on (white knee boots do that to you).

But tonight… tonight is different.

Sweden's face is burning, his gaze fixed on his beer, and he's even more silent than usual. Norway is sipping his own drink, blithely ignoring the heated discussion over shots that's occurring next to him, and Sweden envies him. Iceland is huddled on a lone chair, shoulders hunched, cringing at the whole thing. His face it hotter than one of his volcanoes.

Finland snorts derisively and pours them both another shot of Koskenkorva. Vodka is not Denmark's drink of choice, and it shows in his ruddy cheeks and slightly unfocused gaze, but he stubbornly refuses to be beaten by Finland. Which is hilarious, because while Sweden and Denmark often draw, Finland _never_ loses.

"Please, you stupid bastard, I bet you shoot your load before Nor's even got it up," he scoffs. Sweden's ears burn. As much as he knows Finland is actually very sweet, when he's drunk… well, he's not used to the vulgarity.

Denmark tosses his head back and howls with laughter, like a wolf being kicked. "And I bet Sweden never finishes. Can he even _get_ it up?"

Sweden wants to slam Denmark's face into the table at that remark, but Finland's smirk is enough to let all seated there (except Denmark) that he has everything under control.

"He can get it up perfectly well, thank you. Multiple times. I heard you had the refractory period of a polar bear."

Sweden catches the fleeting wince across Norway's face at that. Ah, so that's where Finland got it. Also, _ouch_. It's not very nice to be reminded of what exactly happens to male polar bears during sex, and he crosses his legs under the table without thinking. Denmark scowls, and it's obvious he's scrambling for a reply.

"Well, you… you're Sweden's _bitch_!" he snaps. Everyone stares, and they're all acutely aware that Denmark has lost the fight so badly it's not even funny. Finland's eye is twitching, and his smug smirk turns to a sweet smile of pure, unadulterated fury.

"Is that so?" he asks, his voice silky smooth and terrifyingly dangerous. Sweden would so dearly love it if they were still in the days when he could run Denmark through with a sword and no one would look twice, but they're not. It's best to leave it to Finland. Norway wisely abandons his drink, stands up and hooks Iceland under the arm.

"We're leaving," he says shortly. "Right now." And he heaves his little brother up to frogmarch him out of the door. Sweden takes a last gulp of beer and swiftly follows. Even though he is more than happy that Denmark will get the shit beaten out of him, he doesn't really want to see it.

Outside, he finds Norway scolding Iceland for wearing booty shorts again and shivering in the cold night air. He offers his long coat, which engulfs the youngest of them after he takes it with a grateful nod, not proud enough to weather the cold tonight. From inside come shouts and the sound of wood cracking, and not long after that out comes Finland, dusting his hands after a job well done.

"I shattered the table on his head!" he says proudly, and Norway snorts in the way he does only when he's truly entertained. Sweden can't help a brief grin and curls his arm around Finland's shoulders.

"Teach him a lesson?" he asks. Finland nods proudly.

"One he'll undoubtedly forget by next week," Norway says, ever the pessimist. But he still smirks when Denmark stumbles from the bar and falls flat on his face, blood pooling from his head.

"He'll live," Norway says breezily, and together the four still standing head to the next bar.


	5. Unbreakable

**5. Unbreakable**

"Mum, what's that?"

Finland looks up to where Sealand is pointing, and smiles. At the very top of the cabinet where all of the good china is, sits one of Sweden's first gifts to him.

"You want to have a look at it?" Finland asks, getting up from the sofa and heading over to it. Sealand nods eagerly, always happy to be allowed something he probably didn't think he would, and Finland drags up a chair to take the elegant wooden sculpture from the cabinet. Sealand sits forward on the sofa keenly, staring at the piece of wood in Finland's hand.

"This," Finland begins, "was something your father gave me many, many years ago. We were… I think we were still in Denmark's house, you know." He sits back down, caressing the smooth wood with a fond smile. "He knew how much I loved swans. They were sacred in my old religion, you know, and my national bird is a swan."

Sealand makes a face. "Swans are for sissies!" he says vehemently. "All white and pretty."

Finland clicks his tongue in disapproval. "There's a reason both Denmark and I have swans as our national animal. Did you know that a blow from a swan's wing can break a man's back?"

From the expression on his son's face, Sealand most certainly did not. Finland smiles triumphantly, his hands wandering over familiar wood, over the beautiful curved neck and chiselled wings. Sweden was still young when he made it, still new to carving, and yet his talent already shone through. He had no idea where he was with paint or pencil, but he could hew anything from the most anonymous block of wood.

"Really?" the boy breathes, now fascinated. Finland nods.

"Yes, indeed. And they pair for life, too. If one swan dies, its partner will mourn for the rest of its life, and maybe even die of heartbreak."

That was a familiar feeling, and Finland runs over the cracks where it was thrown to the floor by hands that had no right to touch it and then mended through the haze of tears by cold, shaking hands. He remembers that cold winter, when Russia was drunk and angry and the sparks of rebellion were beginning to flicker in Finland's eyes.

Once again, however, Sealand drags him away from the thoughts of times long gone, and back to the happier present.

"Did Dad make anything else for you?" he asks, taking the swan carefully and studying it. Finland nods again, running a hand through his son's hair.

"Lots and lots of things, too many to count," he replies. "But this is my favourite."

"Really?"

Both Finland and Sealand look up to see Sweden gazing down, leaning on the back of the sofa with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Sealand yells a greeting, and Sweden ruffles his hair with a chuckle. Finland, for his part, greets his husband with his own smile, accepting the upside down kiss, laughing at Sealand's disgust.

"'Sbroken," Sweden observes needlessly as he takes the swan from Sealand's hands, studying the visible cracks held together with glue and prayers. "I could make you a new one."

Finland shakes his head. "No, it wouldn't be the same. This one… this one is special. It managed to come all this way without being destroyed, no matter how hard people tried."

_Much like us,_ he doesn't say, but Sweden's eyes and his brief kiss tell him he heard well enough.

"But it is broken," Sealand says, not quite understanding. He's too young, after all. "The neck snapped off and you fixed it."

Finland laughs again, slightly envious of his boy's naïveté. "But it didn't get lost, and it wasn't broken beyond repair."

Sealand frowns, trying to comprehend. It's like he can sense there's another meaning beneath his so-called mother's words, but he can't quite reach it or see what it is. But Sweden can, and that's enough for Finland. Because they, like this humble wooden swan, were made to weather everything.


	6. Obsession

**6. Obsession**

He loves them.

He first noticed them years ago, too many to count. They'd been travelling, Finland can't remember where to and where from, but he knows it was early autumn. They'd built a fire (well, Sweden had – he never let Finland do much of anything), caught a rabbit and shared what little was on it, and Sweden had demanded to take first watch. Finland wrapped himself in his bedroll, tired but not enough to sleep just yet, and watched Sweden through the flames.

The other nation had been sharpening his sword, long, steady strokes down biting steel. It had been then that Finland had noticed them.

Sweden's hands. They were large, broad, long-fingered. They held a sword with such prowess and skill that Finland almost envied them. They were a man's hands, nothing like own, pale and delicate and slightly pudgy. The only thing they had in common was the roughness from combat and hard work.

It had also been the first time he'd wondered what it would feel like to have his bare skin touched by those same hands.

He knows now, of course. He's felt their touch, their grip so many times, and yet it's still electric every time, as if it's the first all over again. It's as if Sweden's hands were meant to touch him, as they were meant to wander over his skin and leave heat in their wake. The way they cup his face, deceptively gentle as Sweden kisses him. The way they travel up his thighs, spread over them, their hold steady and firm as Sweden ploughs into him. The way those fingers circle his cock, the way they feel inside him, the way they never leave bruises no matter how rough they get. Sweden knows his own strength, how to calibrate it: his hands never hurt when they're supposed to love.

But the little, everyday things they do are enchanting too.

It's how they can carve wood with such mastery, and sew with such misleading delicacy, and put plasters on cut knees and wipe away tears. How they scrub at muddy white fur, or peel potatoes, or type a mile a minute on the keyboard. Every silly little gesture, every movement… It's as if those hands were made for everything, and Finland can't help but stare.

"Y'have a thing for them, don't you?" Sweden murmurs one night. Finland's across his chest, basking in afterglow and taking every advantage to kiss each knuckle, nip at each tip, nuzzle the palm and touch his lips to the back. Finland looks up, flushing a little.

"Er…"

Sweden chuckles, tucking still-damp blond hair behind Finland's ear lovingly. "Don't have a problem with it. Could never have a problem with it." He raises a hand, stares at it despite his lack of glasses. "Used to hate 'em."

"Why?" Finland demands, tone appalled as if the very idea is ludicrous. He takes Sweden's hand back, caressing it lovingly with his fingers, tracing the contours and following slight scars and almost-disappeared sword calluses.

"Thought they were ugly. Worker's hands, rough."

"That's what I like best about them," Finland says, kissing the back of his hand. "They've been through everything you have, and yet… They still touch me like they worship me."

It's a very selfish thing to say, but it's out before Finland can stop it. Sweden hums.

"That's because y'are something t'be worshipped," he says. Finland can hear the sleepiness in his voice, and continues his ministrations until the other is asleep. Then he finally tucks his hand into Sweden's and closes his own eyes.


	7. Eternity

**7. Eternity**

Well, here they are. The end of what came before and the beginning of everything that comes after. It's strange, seeing the people they consider friends and family crowded there, in this tiny church. Finland feels like his face is going to fall off, he's smiling so much. It's a swell in his heart, the crashing of warm, beautiful waves as Sweden takes his hand, and he notices the other nation is as radiant as he is. Denmark offers a thumbs-up from where he stands behind Sweden, and for once he's showing that he really does care for him like a brother. Finland can hear blubbering from behind his own back, and he hopes Estonia doesn't look too terrible.

They still have photos to take, after all, never mind how eager the boys are to get out of their suits.

The vows sail by, he barely pays attention to them, lost in the unfathomable love and devotion in Sweden's eyes. He repeats them when he needs to, meaning them from the very bottom of his heart. How long did it take them to get here? Seven, eight centuries?

It was worth the wait, to see that smile, a true, beautiful smile, on Sweden's face.

"Don't cry," he whispers, winking. Sweden chuckles, blinks far too much and Finland does the same. It's going to be difficult. Denmark fumbles in his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief when he lifts the ring to the light. Estonia does the same, the other hand clutching a frilly handkerchief that's undoubtedly Ukraine's. She sitting in the front row, and, well, it's lucky she brought a spare.

The ring fits perfectly on his finger, where it's supposed to go. Five hundred years ago he would have seen it as a chain, a shackle, something to keep him tied down as property. Now, however… it's merely a symbol that he belongs to Sweden, and Sweden's own is a symbol that he belongs to Finland. As men, men in love, which they always have been and just never had the courage to be freely until now. Finland's only annoyed they can only be husbands in Sweden, for now, but he knows things will change soon. Even though Oxenstierna-Väinämöinen is an awful mouthful.

When the priest allows it, they kiss, and even though they've kissed a million times before, this is different. It carries the weight of vows and promises for the future, a future even more tightly knit than before, and it carries the depth of a love that withstood everything the world and history could throw at it and came out toughened. There are cheers, whoops and claps, and when they part Denmark thumps them both on the back. He looks a little watery-eyed, though he'll never admit it. Estonia blows his nose and dries his eyes, hugging Finland tightly with a grin.

"You're giving him bad habits," Finland says to Ukraine when he gets a hug from her as well. She gives a soggy laugh as she dabs at her eyes, make-up a lost cause. Sweden, in the meantime, is being congratulated by France, Denmark and Norway.

"You did very well, _mon ami_," France says, shaking Sweden's hand and pulling him into half an embrace.

"Know that," Sweden replies, beaming.

"Hey, hey, Nor, how about we-"

"I'd rather boil myself alive," Norway says before Denmark can get any further, but there's no hiding the pleased flush on his cheeks.

They take a few photos outside the church, laughing as they allow Hungary to mix pleasure and profit, for once. Then it's off to dinner at this cute little hotel, Sealand and Ladonia can finally take off their suits and run around like hellions, and congratulations are offered. England and America shake their hands, so does Canada. Russia offers brief congratulations, although he looks very disappointed. It's obvious he's about to drag up some memories that have no place today, but with a cheerful greeting to a non-existent Belarus the Russian nation is off.

Estonia's speech dissolves into bawling incoherency halfway through, and he has to sit down and take a long drink of wine. Denmark's is memorably awful, as was expected, all good-natured jibes. It's only at the end, when he raises his glass and his smile sincerely wishes them all the best in this world, that it becomes serious.

"We all deserve happiness, even though we might not think it. You two deserve it more than us. You two followed your hearts when the rest of us were still figuring out what that beating in our chests was. This has been a long time coming, we knew it would eventually, and now it has, well… it feels right. God, you're teeth-rottingly sweet as it is, imagine you as newly-weds!"

There's laughter, and Denmark bows his head.

"To Sweden and Finland!"

Everyone repeats the chant with raised glasses. Finland's grinning like a lunatic, cheeks pink with pride and pleasure. Sweden dips his head, blushing shyly. Finland squeezes his hand under the table, and not for the first time he tells himself Sweden is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. More beautiful than thick winter snow, than lakes and pine forests and endless tundra, more beautiful than Turku and Helsinki and all of his people, his language, his heritage. Even the Kalevala.

They have the first dance, no one leading, no one following, foreheads pressed together and eyes only on each other.

"I love you," Sweden murmurs. Finland tightens his grip on the back of Sweden's neck slightly in response.

"I love you too," he replies, and Sweden seems to burst with it.

A few hours later and it's over. Nearly everyone's drunk enough to have gotten to the point where public snuggling isn't strange or even vaguely indecent (but that happens at every party, in Denmark and Norway's case), and no one cares that Estonia's asleep with his head on Ukraine's lap as she chats with Latvia (who has Sealand's on his). No one cares about Iceland cuddling up to Switzerland while Liechtenstein giggles like a madwoman. No one cares that Prussia is teaching Kugelmugel and Ladonia something that children should not know. No one cares that Spain and Romano have taken off to the bathroom, if the sounds from the last stall are anything to go by.

And no one cares that Sweden and Finland have disappeared. They're on the terrace overlooking the lake, champagne glasses in one hand and the other entwined with its counterpart's fingers. They've been exchanging few words and many small kisses, and now Sweden raises their hands to kiss Finland's ring.

"Y'don't know how long I've been waiting f'this t'be here," he says softly, kissing Finland's knuckles this time. Finland smiles, presses closer, abandoning his glass precariously on the railing.

"Forever?" he chances.

"Seems like it," Sweden agrees. Finland laughs and pulls him into a kiss, their hands pressed between their chests. It's long and languorous, a promise of slow, sweet love-making to come. They may have christened the marriage bed long before now, but that doesn't mean they can't do it again, as many times as possible. To be honest, Finland can't wait. He runs a hand along Sweden's shoulders, down to join the other at his chest. He's always wanted him, so much, and now he just wants him even more. He'll want him and love him forever.

"Well, we have eternity now," he murmurs, nipping Sweden's lower lip. Only the stars witness their next kiss, a kiss that seals their love for eternity.


	8. Gateway

**8. Gateway**

They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul. And nothing could be truer than this in Sweden's case. Sweden's eyes are the warm blue of the ocean, and where his face says nothing, his eyes tell all. Finland could kick himself for not realising it sooner, when all he saw was the frown, the fearsome countenance, and all he felt was fear. Foolish, he now thinks, especially knowing Sweden as he does, knowing the man's sweetness and kindness. A gentle giant indeed. But when Finland was afraid, he was also too afraid to even look into the other nation's eyes.

He can't pinpoint the moment he finally figured it all out. Probably sometime after dejected resignation, when he'd begun to realise he didn't hate Sweden as much as he should in his captive existence. He can't even remember what they'd been doing. All he remembers is a large hand reaching for his face perhaps to comfort, perhaps a brief surrender to that profound longing he kept so well-hidden, and a quick slap of his own.

"Don't touch me!" he'd snarled, whether in Finnish or Norse, he can't recall.

And then he'd seen it. Because he hadn't lowered his gaze for once, defiant and glad of the small rebellion – that would teach him to not take such liberties – and he'd seen it. It settled in Sweden's eyes, heavy like a shroud, and it hurt. It was pain, the pain of rejection, crippling and heart-breaking and, in hindsight, all Finland wants to do is reach back through the ages and hold the other nation to him, hold him and tell him he loves him in all the languages he knows and ever will know, and never let him go again.

But that day so many years ago, Finland had merely been taken by surprise. He'd gasped, flinched back, and then Sweden had lowered his head and left, and Finland was sure it had been his imagination. He'd told him to leave, to go, like the beaten dog he was, and when Finland thinks back he cringes, because Sweden is a mountain in a storm and even though Finland loves him, always has, it took him forever to understand it and he could kick himself for that.

At least that moment taught Finland to look for more of them. And he did, and he gradually learnt to read Sweden like a book. When Finland had finally overcome his stubbornness, those eyes were his window to Sweden's innermost world. Fear and fierceness on the battlefield, affection in the house, tenderness and desire in the bedroom, the hint of possessiveness in diplomacy…

Even now, when Finland can read every subtle nuance of change in the other's expression, he still uses the eye trick, especially when Sweden shuts down. There a moments, moments Finland can't entirely comprehend, when Sweden folds in on himself, and his face becomes a stony mask. That's when he pulls out his secret weapon. Usually it's when Sweden is sad, or angry – rare, but it happens.

"Tell me," Finland demands, because he can see the sorrow in Sweden's eyes and he wants to know what's hurting the man he loves so he can kick its arse so hard it'll be permanently hospitalised. If it's something that's making him angry, he'll kill it (it usually involves Denmark, so he can, and it's quite a gratifying experience) It's often something silly, because Sweden overthinks everything twice, but Finland tries to help as best he can.

When you're in love with Sweden, every day is a lesson in linguistics. It's quite lucky that Finland's fluent in Sweden.


	9. Death

**9. Death**

Death is something they've always known.

They've seen it take so many people, their own and others. They'd caused it enough times to remember how it feels, years and years after the last. And they've felt it on their own skin, the thrust of swords, the shard thud of arrows and bullets, the rasp of plague, enough times to still wake up shaking because of it. They've seen each other die time and time again, and nothing can quite compare to that pain. Because you never know if that is the last time, if they've run out of luck.

But they didn't think this would ever happen.

It had been a game, innocent, silly, between two boys. A slip, a fall, and Sweden didn't get there fast enough.

Now Finland is bent over, his youngest son's head in his lap, sobbing. Sweden fares no better, Sealand's hand held tight in his own, tears streaming down his face. Ladonia is gripping his brother's legs, wailing his apologies, even though it is not his fault, and they are all terrified. Nations are immortal, their flesh is their people, their blood is their culture, their bones are their ideals. But micronations… what are micronations if not the ideas of madmen?

No micronation has ever died. They have never fought in wars, or had their citizens suffer so harshly that they too have collapsed into death.

What if Sealand cannot come back?

It's too long, Finland thinks. It's been too long, he won't come back, they've lost their boy forever. He's devastated, he's furious, he's screaming his terror into his son's bloody hair. He lets Sweden drag him into his arms, his cries softening to broken sobs against his husband's chest.

The woods around them are quiet. There's no sound but their grief.

Until there's a harsh gasp, a desperate intake of breath and Finland jerks back. Sealand's eyes have rolled back in his head, his chest heaving, his nails clawing at Sweden's arm. Finland feels the back of his head, feels, the blood dry and the bone knit. The skin reweaves itself under his delicate touch, and Sealand whimpers.

"Mummy… it hurts," he moans, folding in on himself and crying. Finland clutches him to his chest, his sobs now of relief, and rocks him gently.

"It does, sweetheart," Sweden murmurs, caressing his son's head gently. Finland can't say anything, he doesn't think he could if he tried. Ladonia throws himself around his brother, weeping, ignoring Sealand's whine of pain. Finland kisses their hair, both of them, their boys, and he glances up. He doesn't think he's ever seen Sweden so relieved.

"Think we should go home," Sweden says, his voice breaking slightly, and Finland nods. He cradles Sealand to his chest, humming soothingly. Sweden holds Ladonia, who is too exhausted and distraught to walk.

Finland doesn't know how, and to be honest he doesn't care, but he's immensely grateful.


End file.
